


Five Times One of the Team Cooked the Team Meal

by Selmak



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Phil's gonna get them acting like a team even if it kills them, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Team meal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selmak/pseuds/Selmak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back, Phil Coulson wondered how such a good idea of Team Meal Night went so wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ward and the Gnudi

Five Times One of the Team Cooked the Team Meal

INTRO

Skye, clandestine Rising Tide Hacker, sat in the first ‘team’ meeting. The battered bus had been returned to its former glory after Coulson’s ex (and what an obviously explosive, sex charged, tumulus relationship that had to have been, which raised AC’s rep to sky high levels in her opinion)

“Since Skye has elected to join us, I’ve re-arranged the chores schedule,” Coulson began as he began distributing hard copies. HARD COPIES, of their assignments.

“Excuse me, **_chores_**?” Skye interrupted. “And haven’t you heard of e-copies? Save a tree?”

No one laughed so she bit her lip.

“The bus is a privilege, we need to keep it clean. Therefore everyone will be responsible for taking care of the various locations.”

“I don’t see your name on bathroom duty,” protested Skye.

Coulson smiled a tight smile, which Skye recognized as Sister Michael Immaculate’s ‘don’t push me, or you’ll regret it, kid’ smile.

“I clean my own area. Daily. That includes my shower and toilet.”

“And what’s this assignment, _team meal_?” Simmons asked. The other team members pipe in with their questions.

“Once a week, we will have a team meal, and one team member will do the cooking. I’ve decided that after recent events, it might be beneficial for the team to have dinner together once a week as opposed to waiting for the next time you need to blow up the bus.” Coulson stopped and glared at each team member. “Speaking of which, there will be no more blowing up of the bus.”

Skye quickly noticed that she wasn’t the only one that didn’t look thrilled with AC’s idea. Her problem was simple, she didn’t know how to cook and never really needed to do so. It was horrifying to be the only one that couldn’t cook, and somehow serving everyone cereal wasn’t gonna cut it. May would fling it in her face!

“Ward will be cooking for us on Saturday,” Coulson announced.

 

WARD

Coulson was sitting in his office when Ward knocked on the door.

“Enter,” he announced.

“Sir, this cooking thing,” Ward began.

The pen is placed just so, and Coulson looked up at his specialist.

“Let me guess, you’re a lone wolf chef? You cook alone?” Coulson dryly asked.

“This team meal idea,” Ward once again interjected.

“I understand your former SO Garrett is a firm believer in food trucks,” Coulson interrupted. “It could explain why they nearly grounded him on his last physical. His new specialist, Trip, is a vegan.”

“Sir,” Ward continued.

“LDL was almost 300,” Coulson explained. “Naturally, I’m concerned about yours as it was a little high on the last exam. Plus, you need to immediately cease the Lone Wolf routine.”

Ward still didn’t look convinced, so Phil laid it on the line.

“Yes, it’s an order.” He looked down, as Ward has been dismissed but he looked up when he realized that Ward hadn’t left.

Ward looked nervous, which was a reassuring change from cocky, self-assured, smug. Damn shame the full head of hair was unaffected.

“Sir, I can’t cook. At all.” Ward slowly admitted.        

Good God, Grant Ward was thirty something years old and he didn’t know how to cook? Didn’t Ward know that the best date was to cook a meal for your lover and drink lots and lots of wine? If Ward couldn’t cook, the entire team might end up in The Hub suffering from food poisoning.

“I’ll show you how to make Ricotta Gnudi with Pomodoro Sauce. Even a tyro can’t screw that up. Salad, garlic bread, maybe strawberry panna cotta for dessert. Meet me on Saturday at two, we’ll need to go to market.”

“Market?” Ward repeated. “We don’t have what we need on the bus?”

“We’ll be in Italy. You can’t make Italian food in Italy using processed cheese. It’s a crime against nature,” Coulson advised. “You need to food shop, Ward.”

SATURDAY

Ward in tow, Coulson attacked the local farmer markets like he was on a mission. Cheeses are smelled, pinched and tasted. Basil is examined and crushed between his fingers and Old Italian grandmothers are flirted with in a noble yet failed attempt to steal their secret, sacred recipes. After Ward admitted that one cheese tasted much like another, his role is changed from fellow taster to delivery boy by a horrified Coulson. Whatever Coulson purchased, Ward is required to carry.

And the wine is decided upon by Phil and Ward is not permitted a taste as his palate has been deemed lacking.

Fortunately, everyone has vacated the bus by the time the two men returned. The items are unpacked and Coulson inspected the produce once more. The inspection completed, he picked up a tomato after he poured himself a glass of wine.

“This is a tomato,” Phil explained before he picked up a small white bulb. “This is garlic. Do not confuse the two.”

The effort isn’t even attempted to hide Phil’s smirk.

“Sir,” protested Ward.

“Just wanted to clear up any possible misunderstandings as we want this edible,” Phil insisted before he savored a sip of wine.

Under Coulson’s expert tutorage, Ward mixed, diced, slice and minced. A few of the more complicated culinary feats required Coulson to take over to prevent a dining disaster, but Ward was surprised to realize that cooking was rather relaxing. Plus it gave him a chance to talk with Coulson about something that wasn’t SHIELD related.

The two agents chatted about the strange world of sautéing, how best to crush a garlic bulb with a knife blade, Italian operas that Coulson had seen and the arcane difference between sea salt and kosher salt. Should red pepper be added or would that disturb Fitz’s Scottish sensibilities? Meanwhile, nothing is measured by Coulson. It seemed that he was an artist as there are drips and drabs, pinches and shakes while Ward is ordered to measure everything twice.

“I pulled two Italian Chiantis for dinner. All you need to do now is cook the meal, and plate it. You should be able to handle it,” Coulson announced.

Ward was confused so Coulson sighed, “You put a lot of effort into this meal. Don’t serve it on paper plates. You will pour the wine and grate the cheese for the team. Do not serve the Kraft Grated Parmesan Cheese.”

Ward protested but Coulson realized it was done more of out a need to protest, to keep his Lone Wolf status intact than a real protest. Poor Little Lone Wolf Ward was being assimilated into Team Coulson.

“Ward, good china and silverware.”

DINNER

Dinner is served and the team oo’d and aww’d over the experience. Coulson unbent enough to explain that in Italian, "gnudi" means exactly what it sounds like in English: naked. The gnudi are little pasta-like dumplings that are "naked" of their pasta wrapper, sort of like raviolis without anything to enclose them.

And the strawberry dessert is delicious and combined with the perfect wine, Skye hasn’t eaten such a delicious meal ever.

So, she offered a Skye toast, “To RoboAgent. Who would have thought that you could cook naked pasta so well?”

Glasses are clinked, comments are exchanged and Ward just smiled and completely failed at looking modest.

 

AFTERS

 

Coulson is pleased as team meal night has segued into team game night. It seemed that his idea of team bonding has gone over quite well. However, instead of joining the game, he returned back to his office and picked out a book to read.

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door, so he informed whomever it was to enter. It’s Jemma Simmons and she looked worried. Worried as ‘Oh no, the lab exploded!’.

Oh God, what now?

“Is there a problem?” He asked.

“Sir!” Jemma explained. “I can’t cook! How can I possibly follow Ward’s meal?”

“Simmons, you’re an expert in biochemistry. Cooking is just an artistic form of biochemistry,” Phil protested.

His reassurance doesn’t help. In fact, Jemma’s expression turned despairing.

“I burn water,” Simmons whispered. “How can I hope to complete with naked pasta?”

Oh dear God, Team Meal Night was turning into a major production.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Lacheisgrimme for her chart comment.

THE PLANNING MEETING

“Sir, I need help with this assignment!” Jemma Simmons insisted.

“Simmons, I distinctively remember a buffalo mozzarella and prosciutto sandwich with a hint of pesto aioli that you made,” Coulson reminded her when they met for the planning stages of ‘Simmons cooks dinner for the team’.

“Self-defense,” she explained.  “He gets so tetchy when his blood sugar drops. That sandwich keeps him functioning.”

“Do you have any idea what you want to try?” Phil prompted.

“A few small ideas,” she admitted, right before she pushed her Stark Pad toward Coulson.

He hadn’t known Jemma Simmons for long, but if there had been a chore score board (Perhaps hidden in the Team Lead’s Office) for the kids, Good Girl Jemma’s line would be full of smiley faces as she was an overachiever. Surly, hormonally crazed, older brother Ward would have a plethora of scowly faces, Fitz would have checkmarks for chores adequately fulfilled and little sister Skye, whose line would run the entire spectrum of unhappy faces, black checkmarks and a few smiley faces, when she was trying to butter up Dad so she could borrow Lola.

It’s no surprise then that Simmons hasn’t picked anything easy. No. Not at all. He couldn’t even pretend to hide his amusement.

“Cervelles au beurre noi? Hell, no,” Phil interjected.  “Fitz has a thing about texture, do you really think he’ll eat Calves’ brains in brown butter sauce?”

He wouldn’t say that Leo Fitz is on the spectrum, but he has noticed that the Scot set in his ways, has his quirks and he has his routine.

“If I make them, he will,” Jemma said with complete confidence.

“Simmons, please promise me that you will only use your super powers over Fitz for good. Seriously. Cervelles au beurre noi?” He can’t help it, he gifted her a fierce glare before he turned the screw. “What is going on with the team, seriously?”

As he had guessed, she quickly folded due to his stern countenance.

“There’s a contest,” Simmons admitted. “Whose meal is the best, wins.”

**_Children!_ **

“Victor gets?”  He’s learned a great deal from wrangling Tony Stark including how not to show his amusement.

“Losers do the winner’s chores for a week. A whole month without cleaning the bus is a very tempting prize,” Simmons nodded her head once.

“And you think calves brains will win you first place? Seriously?” Coulson exclaimed.

“You’re a foodie. Points will be given for originality and ‘plating’,” Jemma explained. “It’s obvious you helped Ward as he never could have pulled off that meal without a caterer. You’re a miracle worker, he’s even adding nicely chopped vegetables to his scrambled eggs now. He even tried poaching eggs yesterday.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he informed her in a very droll tone.

“Thank you!”  Simmons literally bounced in her excitement and Coulson realized that had no idea what he was in for. Was it his imagination, but were those the opening sounds of “O Fortuna” he heard?

_O Fortuna, velut luna, statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis;_

“Leave your pad here. I’ll see what you might be able to do, but absolutely positively no brains,” Coulson insisted.

There were days when he felt like he was one of the living dead, resurrected and ripped from his earthly grave, so Phil Coulson will not; WILL NOT, nibble on brains. Calves or otherwise. Thank you very very much.

“I figured since we’ll be in Paris, we could try French food,” Jemma explained.  “We could go shopping in the farmer’s market.”

He can’t hide his confusion, and Jemma gives him her big brown puppy dog eyes complete with quivering lip.  Coulson went mano a  mano with an alien with a daddy complex and he had the scars to prove it but he’s no match to Jemma’s big brown eyes.

“But _you_ took _Ward_ food shopping for _his_ team meal.”

Yes, there seems to be jealously among the kids. They all wanted time with Dad, which meant Mom would be jealous.

“We can go to the marché couvert and investigate the various fromageries and charcuteries,” he finally decided.

THE MISSION

“A charcuterie plate might be a good idea to start the meal,” he informed a rather eager Simmons, who had zealously over prepared.

“Yes, we need a selection of cheeses,” she began before she began to rattle off her various ideas on what would be the perfect selection, based on consistency, firmness, acidity etc. She trailed off when she realized that he was smiling at her.  Phil couldn’t help it, her enthusiasm was quite charming especially she discussed the proper wine.

“What?” She protested.

“There’s not a quiz on this,” he explained. “You won’t be graded.”

 “I know,” she protested. “But I want to win.”

Phil nodded.

THE HOSTILE

It’s the first time Jemma has been in a French farmer’s market, and she embraced the event whole heartedly, unlike Ward who needed to be cajoled to experience anything. No, Simmons guzzled the experience, and he’s perhaps displayed a bit too amused as one of the vendors then made a rude Frenchian comment that implied that Simmons is his mistress.  That’s being kind, as the vendor commented that Simmons is his much younger ‘fille de joie’.

Phil lost his smile, his fists clenched and the vendor realized that he has crossed a dangerous line. Hopefully Simmons didn’t hear the vendor compare her to a prostitute.

“We’re leaving,” he tersely informed Simmons. “He doesn’t have for what we’re looking. If he did, I certainly wouldn’t buy it from him.”

Simmons nodded her head but then she pulled his head down to hers and she gave him a kiss. On his lips. If he wasn’t the beneficiary, merely a bystander, he’d believe that Simmons’s tongue was performing a tonsillectomy. The sham snogging concluded; she turned and faced the vendor. In perfect, flawless French, she informed the vendor that she was not Coulson’s whore, but his wife.  Then she patted her stomach and announced that she’s mother of his children.

Then in a very sultry tone, she added, “I like my men like I like my liquor, aged and mellow. And I **_savor_** …every single drop.”

Coulson has died at least once in his life, but at the moment, he heard the heavenly hosts calling his name and announcing, “Phil, you really underestimated Jemma Simmons.”

And yes, the soundtrack of his life had a new addition – “O, Fortuna”.

“I think we can leave now,” she said as she pulled a stunned Coulson away from the vendor.  He permitted her to yank him down a side row and then he stopped.

“Simmons?” He pleaded.  “What just happened?”

“He annoyed me.” She is the very exemplification of fierceness. “Not that he thought I was a prostitute, but that he thought that the only way you could get a date was by paying. I mean, you’re established…”

Phil Coulson has never ever really felt old, but he can feel someone throwing dirt on his grave.

“Matured….”

He swallowed and tried to figure out how to ask her to stop, before his ego is completely shredded, but an oblivious Simmons merrily continued.  “I’m sure you have plenty of women who’d love to date you as you’re just so sophisticated. A far cry from the immature prats I’ve dated.”

He hasn’t dated since before he died. It’s been a year or more for him and that relationship had been after a very long dry spell.

“Plus you’ve got the sweetest dimples when you really smile.” She leaned toward him and then added, “But you’re cutest when you look totally flummoxed, like right now.”

“A baby?” he asked when he finally has regained use of his tongue. “You told him you were having my baby.”

“Babies,” she chirped. “Phil, Junior is four, Emma is two, and the twins…”

“Twins?” he repeated.

“Twins!”

THE GATHERING OF INTEL

“This is delicious,” Jemma decided as she sampled a particularly savory pâté de campagne. “Try it.”

“My hands are full,” as they are.  He’s a gentleman so he’s loaded down with wine, various cheese and fresh baguettes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed you,” she said even as she told him to open wide before she fed him a cracker with some of the pate smeared on it.  “Just the slightest flavor of cognac. Delicious!”

Simmons has decided to hand feed him. 

When you’re a man of a certain age and a receding hairline, you should count yourself lucky that one of the pretty girls is willing to spoon feed you. However, no sponge baths.

“We’ll take that,” she decided. “Can you recommend any stalls for olives or cornichons?”

She’s given directions and a thin shaving of duck prosciutto which she shared with him.

“Come on! Come on!”

THE DEBRIEFING

Simmons’ control over the kitchen is absolute, so Coulson attempted to slip away.

“Where are you going?” She asked even while she waved her knife. “You **_helped_** Ward. I think that’s an unfair advantage.”

“Simmons,” is his response.

“Sir! You **_helped_** Ward!” 

Big brown eyes, trembling lip, and a foot stamp.

“What do you want me to do?”  He acquiesced, because really it’s either this or paperwork.

“I’m cutting the cheese. I think wedges that are this size are optimal.” 

Each cheese has been neatly, surgically neatly, vivisected into exactly identically sized pieces.

“It’s ok, if the cheeses aren’t identically sized, Simmons.”

Her look of horror made him smile, which is the wrong thing to do, as she advanced on him, still waving the knife.

“Simmons, stabbing your supervisor will end your career in SHIELD,” he reminded her.

“Plating,” she reminded Coulson. “Points are given for plating. Haphazardly cut cheeses will detract from the score for plating.”

“My bad,” he admitted.

Fortunately his apology is accepted as the knife is placed on the table.

“I have to beat Ward,” she explained. “He’s just so smug about his supposed cooking prowess, but we all know you helped him.”

“How about I chop your onion for your soup?” he offered.

“Ok,” she said. “But make sure they are evenly sized.”

“Promise,” he assured her even as he skinned and vivisected the onion with a practice ease.

Simmons’ obsessive need for perfection relaxed enough for them to chat. She talked about Sheffield, her love of science, how she had met Fitz and a thousand other things. He enjoyed their conversation especially when they taste tested a bottle of Burgundy.

Perhaps a bit too much as he believed that there were moments when Simmons was flirting with him.  Very obviously flirting, so he decided it was the wine

“You’ll have to plate it,” he informed her. He held up one finger to silence her protest. “Ward had to plate it, so will you.”

THE WRAP UP

Simmons doesn’t bother to hide her glee, as her French inspired meal has trumped Ward’s Ricotta Gnudis. However, Jemma Simmons doesn’t just desire to beat Ward, she desired to utterly annihilate her competition in the Food Wars. After dinner she brought out the chafing dish, which Phil doesn’t remember ever seeing before tonight.  With a slight grin, she lit it before she poured an ungodly amount of coffee and liquor together. That done, she whipped out a clove studded orange peel and requested that Skye hold it above the chafing dish using a long fork.

She dimmed the lights, poured more liquor on the orange peel and then produced a mini blow torch which she used to set the orange peel on fire where the cloves sparked like miniature fireworks.   The team, except for Phil, applauded before she dropped the peel into the chafing dish.

 ** _Fire_** , Simmons had upped the ante by having fireworks. Fitz had a long, considering look on his face, which meant that the wheels of his mind were churning; perhaps his meal would be served by the D.W.A.R.F.S., 

_O Fortuna, velut luna, statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis!_

“It will simmer for ten minutes, and then I’ll serve the Café Diablo. Any one like some citrus tart?” Simmons asked, content in her victory.

THE MISSION CONTINUES

Coulson waited for the knock on his door.  It came somewhat later than he anticipated, and not from whom he had expected.

No, no, no! He refused to believe who was in his office. And would that damnable choir cease their constant singing of “O, Fortuna”?

This was supposed to be a good idea. It wasn’t supposed to turn into “Cooking with Coulson”.

“Phil,” May stated as she crossed her arms, looking very much the fierce warrior princess.

 “You can cook,” Phil protested. “Don’t tell me you can’t. You bake cookies.”

“Baking is different than cooking, Phil,” protested Melinda May.


	3. Chapter 3

INTEL GATHERING

“One question,” Phil asked May after her startling confession that she couldn’t cook had finally been processed. “When you ‘cooked’ dinner for me, it was Romanelli’s Pizzeria, wasn’t it?”

May nodded. “I always made sure I got extra so I could send you home with leftovers. Plus mother cooked a few meals especially for you. I just thawed and heated them when I cooked for you.”

Coulson tilts his head and displays true confusion. Dragon Lady May had openly disparaged him, on the few times he had the misfortune to cross her path.

“Your mother hated me,” protested Coulson.

“She actually liked you a great deal. She believed that by being loudly disapproving of you that I’d date you,” May explained. “She believed that I was quite… contrary.”

It’s been a long day; dealing with Simmons and her rather vivid imagination (oh God, the twins! TWINS!) has been put him in a fey mood. That’s his excuse for cackling.

“No, not you,” He protests in a very futile attempt to remain composed. “No one could ever accuse you of **_that_**.”

Her look of disapproval (akin to the wounded hauteur of a waterlogged terrier) is too much for Coulson. He laughs. Uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry. This has turned into a major production. The children are having a contest,” he stops at the look on her face and shakes his head. “Seriously, you’re in the competition too, aren’t you? On one hand, this is a team building experience, on the other; this is completely out of control as Simmons decided to set things on fire. I thought better of you, Melinda May.”

He attempts to be stern but it doesn’t work.

“Friday, we’re food shopping, aren’t we?” He asks. With May, it’s best to pretend that he had a choice.

“Yes.” Sideways grin. “After all you helped Ward and Simmons.”

Well, of all the kids, Simmons was his favorite as she never caused him any lost sleep. Littlest daughter Skye made him to want to pull out his thinning hair on a regular basis, oldest son Ward was just too reticent and grouchy; and he still hasn’t gotten a handle on Fitz; what with his machine, his plaids and his profound bond with Simmons and the fact that he had named his D.W.A.R.F.S after Snow White’s buddies.

“Do you have your mother’s recipes?” He asked.

Melinda May snorts.

“Ah, gave all the secrets to your sister? She was always biddable,” Coulson admits.

Melinda May rolls her eyes at him.

COMPLICATIONS

Wednesday, Jemma Simmons jumps out of the Bus and lands in the Atlantic Ocean. It was a noble gesture as she thought she was protecting her team, but Phil is angry. He’s failed to keep his kids safe, and he directs the anger inward. Jemma Simmons, she of the sweet, positive disposition, the ‘daughter’ he thought he could trust to not do anything stupid, who had deeply amused him with her highly imaginative defense of his physical prowess (Twins! TWINS! at his rather advanced age) had jumped out of the airplane.

And he wonders if Skye is rubbing off on her, instead of the other way around.

A fire extinguisher! She had clocked Fitz with a fire extinguisher. He mentally notes that he’ll keep an eye on Simmons and any fire extinguishers when he’s in the same room. For such as slight soul, she was a bit too comfortable whipping it at Fitz.

But that night he can’t sleep, as he keeps reliving watching a despondent Jemma Simmons jumping even while he struggles, futilely, to stop it.

Thursday, Melinda May stops him in the kitchen.

“Market today, since the markets are closed tomorrow,” she announces. “It will do you good as you need to get off the bus before you ground Simmons for the next twenty years.”

“Already have,” a grim Coulson announces. He ignores the fact that May is smirking at him.

“It’s hard when your children grow up,” she says.

He doesn’t give her a response.

STRIKE FORCE MARKET PLACE

“How’s your Arabic?” he asks as they head to the market.

“Fair, yours?” Melinda admits.

“Fortunately, I’m fluent as I had to haggle with the Moroccan office to get them to pick Simmons up and bring her back.”

His tone is droll, so she adds, “And Ward?”

“It was only three miles off the shore, he could easily swim to shore. Plus they didn’t want to keep Mr. Abrasive.”

His quietness disturbs May, as she’s used to his white noise of mindless chattering.

“What are you thinking?” Melinda May asks as they haggle, respectfully, with a vendor for dried apricots.

“Lamb, squash & apricot tagine,” Phil decides. “There’s lamb in the freezer, so that, a chopped cucumber and tomato salad with khboz and you can bake a Meskouta for dessert. Not a great deal of cooking, but mainly baking. Let’s play to your strengths, Agent.”

“Any chance to set anything ablaze?” she murmurs with a twisted grin.

For a moment, it’s like the old Melinda May is there, standing next to him, and he vows, **_vows_** to himself, that he won’t give up, that she’s still there.

“We’re down a fire extinguisher, so no,” is his lightning retort.

“Pity, as the look on your face when she whipped out the torch,” she murmurs. Then in a brighter tone, “I never realize you were such a chef.”

Coulson is in a strangely pensive mood; the near loss of the irreplaceable, irrepressible Simmons; that brief glimpse of the old Melinda May. Plus there’s an old wound, that hasn’t even begun to heal. He has to swallow, once, twice before he can speak.

He had met her right after Bahrain, when he had been defeated in body and soul. He had stumbled across an advertisement for a free entrance to an orchestra practice. Since Phil had nothing better to do, except spent time with his demons, he had gone. She had played _J.S. Bach's Suite for Solo Cello no. 1_ , Kodaly, more classics by the masters and then… she had thrown her hair back and rocked “Unforgiven” by Metallica.

The very incongruity of it all, a petite woman rocking Metallica on the cello had made him smile for the first time in days. He had waited outside the stage door just to thank her and fortunately, she hadn’t called security on him. Couldn’t have blamed Audrey, as he had been wearing a high and tight due his still fresh injuries from Bahrain and he hadn’t slept more than catnaps for days.

She had taken pity on him, thought he was a returnee from the Sandbox who was having problems adjusting back to the real world. Her dad had been career military, so, feeling compassion for him, Audrey had invited him to coffee. Hadn’t run scared when he had fumbled and stumbled over how much her music had meant to him at the difficult time in his life.

Aud had laughed at his jokes. Nobody ever laughed at his jokes because he wasn’t funny. God knows he tried; but he lacks the knack. But she had laughed at his jokes.

“When I was in town for more than a few days, I’d cook for her. Usually, I’d pick something from whatever I had been. She… really… enjoyed Moroccan food.”

The magic of food shopping in an exotic marketplace is shattered, so they complete their mission with a minimum of words.

They return back to the Bus and the team greets them. “Cooking with Coulson” has become a team tradition, already, surprisingly quickly, and everyone is interested in what is being brought into the kitchen.

Simmons makes an off handed comment to Coulson about the Ras el hanout, a Moroccan spice, and he’s pithy, almost curt with her. Her smile fades and she nervously looks at the rest of the team who could help but notice their tense interaction. Coulson puts his packages down and leaves for his office.

“Wow,” Skye says. “Was that really Coulson?”

The bio chemist hunches her shoulders and leaves the area.

“What just happened here?” a perplexed Ward asks.

“Coulson’s bealing about her leaping out of the Bus,” Fitz explained.

“Bealing?” Ward asks, as while he’s fluent in six languages, he doesn’t even have a passing familiarity with Scot English.

“He’s furious,” Skye inserts. She and Fitz then follow Simmons leaving Ward with a Melinda May who doesn’t offer her opinions.

It’s not the reason. Phil Coulson is just… tired and haunted by his ghosts. He skips dinner and stays in his office where he listens to music… cello music… until he falls asleep. For once, he doesn’t dream of Loki and Tahiti, he dreams of a coffee shop and a woman with warm, understanding eyes.

“Since I died, Audrey, since I lost you, I’ve changed,” he confides. “Simmons…. I don’t know if I could have survived losing her. She’s just so young, Aud. If she had died, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “You haven’t changed, Phil. Recent events have just reminded you of the real Phil Coulson.”

MISSION

Phil reports to the kitchen in the late morning and May hands him his coffee.

“Didn’t join the team for dinner or breakfast,” is her greeting. “I’ve decided to add a few things to the menu. Fortunately, they just need to be baked.”

He doesn’t say anything, instead he drinks his coffee even while he begins pulling out the various implementations of cooking torture. The Stark pad is placed just so and Phil begins to review the recipe.

“Yesterday, Simmons?” she prompts. “Little curt, weren’t you?”

“Tagine, kettle, black?” is his retort even as he chops the lamb into neat cubes.

He ignores her eye roll because sometimes it’s just the best way to handle it.

“I heard what you said… to the firefighter,” she begins. “About not being afraid.”

His only response is to continue cubing the lamb. With perhaps too much enthusiasm as May shakes her head.

“He needed to hear that, so he wouldn’t be afraid. Somehow I don’t believe that pithy platitude would have worked with Mr. Simmons. She’s twenty six years old, and she lacks field experience. We still had time, she made the unilateral decision to jump. She… made the decision that I should have made,” he stops because he can’t continue, not even to May.

_I would have made the decision. I would have looked her in the eyes and apologized for what I had to do before I performed a mercy killing. I’d wear the guilt of killing an innocent like a shroud as it was my decision. Even if Simmons had… died… I wouldn’t have told her parents that she had made the decision. It would be easier for them to hate me for eternally than even for a sheer brief moment to hate their daughter for making such a brave decision._

“Would you have told her not to be afraid?” May asks. There is no criticism in her tone.

“She’s British. I would have quoted Harry Potter at her. ‘After all, to the well-organized mind, _death_ is but the _next great adventure’,” he says._

“Coulson,” May protests. “Simmons decided to make the decision so you wouldn’t feel guilty.”

The lamb is brutally vivisected and he puts the knife down. “She doesn’t know me at all if she actually thought that would make it one bit easier for me. I thought of the four of them, she was the only one I could trust to behave. After all, she has all gold stars on the Chore Chart.”

May shakes her head. “You better be joking about having a Chore Chart in your office.”

He feels a little better, the best he’s been since the first floating body appeared. “I don’t joke. It’s well documented that Phil Coulson has no sense of humor.”

“That’s the God’s honest truth,” she quips.

“However, lamb’s done,” he states, as he slides it into the tagine. “Did you cut up the squash?”

“I did,” inserts Jemma Simmons who nervously displays her perfectly cubed butternut squash. Her shoulders are still tense and she looks up at Phil as though she wants his approval.

**KIDS!**

“Always take on the hard job, don’t you?” Phil asks.

“Want my gold stars spree to continue,” she admits.

He softly laughs and shakes his head.

“Since this is Moroccan, we’re serve it Moroccan style. Since May has everything under control in the kitchen, you and I can set up the dining area. We need to get cushions as we’re sitting on the floor.”

Simmons looks at him and smirks so Coulson sighs, “What?”

“You’re not planning on wearing a suit and tie tonight, are you?” She asks. “Perhaps something informal might be nice. Do you have anything that’s not a dress shirt?”

Phil tried not to be offended when May nodded her head in agreement with Simmons. What was the problem with his clothes? He could do anything in them, storm a beach in Malta, change a tire, and he could certainly sit on the floor.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

The meal is a success, but Phil still isn’t sure why the fact he isn’t wearing a suit and tie is such a big deal.

However, he’s already cleared his schedule to food shop with Fitz, just in case the Scot asks. He’s actually looking forward to it, and he’s not sure if that’s the old or new Coulson talking.

 


	4. Fitz and the Drunken Droids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't abandoned, but it took me far too long to find my inner Fitz.

THE PRE-MISSION MEETING

Fitz has not reached out to him for assistance on the Team Meal, and Phil Coulson assumed that maybe Leo Fitz can cook.  It was just Fitz and his Mum for many years after all, so someone had to cook. Phil’s hopes are dashed by a helpful and nervous Jemma Simmons.

“Sir, he can’t cook at all,” Jemma informed him after she trapped him in the gym while he glistened on the treadmill. Never sweated, mind you, his body GLISTENED with Level 8 sweat.

“He hasn’t asked for me to help,” protested Phil. “I can’t just barge in and take over, Simmons.”

“Scots have their pride, and he’s very Scottish,” a very serious Jemma explained.

God help him with the Lancashire Simmons and her cute prejudices about the Scots.  However, she did manipulate… MANAGE… Fitz correctly so he should heed her advice.

“Ah! That’s clarifies the plaid fetish.  I’m glad you explained it. Never would have guessed that he’s Scottish.”  He smiled and decided to ramp up his workout. And it wasn’t because Simmons was watching him, ok? Ok.

“Sir,” protested Jemma.

He stopped the tread mill and wiped his glistening body with a towel.  Then he turned to face Simmons.

“The children don’t like it when you call me, Sir. The twins cry,” protested Phil. “Or I forgot, being a bad father, have they been born yet? I know the older children took the news about the prostitutes badly. Required me to buy them a pony.”

“Sir,” protested a struggling Jemma. “I told him to talk to you about it, but… but with his family history…”

“Say no more,” Phil interrupted. “I understand.”

No, he didn’t, really. However, he assumed Jemma Simmons, Over Achiever, Jumper Out of Airplanes Sans Shoot will accept that he does understand, so she will talk freely.  Through the years, he realized that some people just want to be helpful.

“It was just his Mum and him after his Da died when he was young. His Mum worked two jobs to keep food on the table and… I think she made a big stew on Sunday and he reheated it for his supper while she was at work. So he never really had a real sit down family meal except for the holidays.”

Ah, that explained why Fitz usually ate in his lab, hovered over his research. 

INTERCESSION

“Seriously, I cannot believe that we have gone through two gallons of milk in two days,” Phil protested.  “Whose turn is it to go shopping?”

“Yours, AC,” piped in Skye who now religiously followed the Chore Chart once it had been revealed that Gold Stars were being awarded. It seemed that Skye believed that prizes would be awarded based on total points on the Chore Chart, and Phil wasn’t about to dissuade her of that idea.  He had been through one team discussion about their colossal failure to keep the team showers tidy (MOLD was not acceptable. No how, no way, not on HIS bus) and preferred not to relive it.

Though if Gold Stars were being awarded, even mentally, Fitz would have gotten 4 Golf Stars for training his Golden Retrievers to clean the showers.

“Guess it is,” he admitted with a loud sigh. Melinda May, who knew him best, rolled her eyes at his overacting. “Fitz? Since you’re cooking, do you need a ride to the grocery store?”

Fitz nodded once and Simmons brightened. Noticeably. Lord, it was a good thing she was a Biochemist as she’d never make it as a spy.  And Jasper Sitwell to the contrary, she’d never make it as a Femme Fatale.

“Oooh, I’m really looking forward to Fitz’s cooking. I understand the Scots put a lot of liquor into their food,” Skye stated in a horrible Scottish accent.

“You simply cannot do the accent, so stop it,” protested Fitz in a very passable American accent. “You sound like Montgomery Scott.”

“He was Scottish!” protested Skye.

“James Doohan was Canadian,” insisted Fitz. “ ** _CANADIAN_**.”

Phil pounced then as it was for Fitz’s own good after all. “Meet me at the truck in fifteen minutes.”

LOGISTICS

“Since we’re in Seattle, I figured we could go to Pike Place Market. It’s got everything from a farmer’s market to fresh seafood,” Phil explained as he pulled away from the airfield.

“You know a lot about food,” Fitz murmured as he adjusted his seat belt.  He was sitting in the adult seat, not the child / junior agent seats in the back, and he seemed to be a fish out of water.

“My father died when I was nine. It was just my mother and me, and she worked two jobs. She tried, but I got so tired of Dinty Moore stew every single night.”  Phil made a face and for added bonus points, stuck out his tongue. “To this day the very sight of a Dinty Moore can reduces me to a catatonic state.”

Fitz seemed to relax at his comment.

“Had a lot of stew when I was growing up,” admitted Fitz.

“So I learned how to cook.  Any idea what you’ll need? Pike Place needs a mission plan and most importantly, an extrication plan. It’s huge,” Phil explained.

“I have no idea,” Fitz murmured.  “Somehow I don’t think lamb stew will compare favorably to naked pasta and Simmons’ pyrotechnics.”

“I had a really good dish at a place called Livingston's, based in Linlithgow.  It was seafood – you like seafood, Fitz?”

Fitz murmured something that might be yes, so Phil pulled up the menu for Livingston’s when they are in the parking lot. While the Tian of White Crab, Avocado and Langoustine Emulsion sounded suitably exotic, Fitz decided that Simmons wouldn’t enjoy the langoustines staring at her with their little beady eyes while she ate dinner.  Truthfully, Phil wouldn’t either, but best to blame it on Simmons’ delicate sensibilities. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

“She’s really into Disney, so no, no, no,” Fitz announced.

“Ah, that explains the Seven Dwarves’ names then,” as Phil readily admitted to May that he doesn’t remember their various names, and in fact, has named them Sleazy, Wheezy, Jasper and Felix on his various SHIELD reports.  It’s rather rude of him not to know the names of the drones that have saved his life more than once, but really…

“Is there any recipes with liquor in them?” Phil asked.

“Contrary to popular belief, Scots don’t drink with every meal,” Fitz protested.

“No, that’s the Irish,” said the Irish-American Coulson.  “I just find a drink or two helps when dealing with Ward. He loosens up considerably.”

“You want me to get Ward drunk?” Fitz asked. His face is mock horrified but his tone is quite amused. He even has one hand on his hip in pretend horror.

“Take one for the team, Fitz.” Phil pleaded. “Skye will take photos and I’ll not know that the pictures will be plastered all over the bus. It’ll keep Ward humble.”

Really, during the long nights that Coulson couldn’t sleep, he had debated how the hell the Lone Wolf Grant Ward had survived John Garrett, the Mouth That Blabbered on and on until a Pissed Off Felix Blake had Literally Stuffed a Sock in It. (And Coulson had pictures to prove it).

“He is a bit of a prat,” agreed Fitz before he quickly added, “But in an overly protective big brother way.”

“I didn’t hear that comment,” Phil easily admitted. 

“You’ll remember it and use it against me, won’t you?” Fitz retorted to which Phil Coulson shrugged and pretended to look innocent. And FAILED.

SUPPLIES PROCUREMENT

They spent the next few hours talking as they walked around the marketplace.  Phil bought coffee beans for himself (as well the team could handle the swill that SHIELD provided but he had gotten hooked on really good coffee) and a few other odds and ends that he’d share with May. But not the kids, as the parents deserved a few treats for dealing with the kids and their myriad of issues and their jumping out of airplanes sans suits and hooking up with old boyfriends that meant no good and… ASGARDIANS.  While he liked Thor and really admired Lady Sif as a BAMF, they were exhausting and headache inducing, and those were the GOOD Asgardians.  And the less said about the Bad Asgardians the better.

When they returned back to the bus, Phil helped bring everything to the kitchen.

“Do you want help?” he asked Fitz. “I can slice and dice. I helped the others, but the only thing is, I can’t help you plate it. You need to present the meal. Nicely. Also, no pyromania, ok?  No fire on the bus. I should have realized with Simmons that I’ve have to make that as a ground rule in your little competition that you’re having that I’m not supposed to know you’re having.”

“I really hate the sight of fire extinguishers these days,” admitted Fitz which earned him an amused snort from Coulson. “But yes, I could use the help. I don’t know anything about cooking.”

“That’s fine,” Phil agreed. “I usually have a drink or two when I’m cooking, but… that stuff is pretty potent. I better limit myself to one. Anyway, we’ll need to get out the mallet for the Carpaccio, first.”

THE MEAL

Fitz, being a TechnoMage of the 5th Level, had drinks and appetizers served by the Golden Retrievers. Ecstasy, with equal measures of Drambuie, cognac and French Vermouth had a surprisingly easy taste, but a powerful kick after the second or third one.  Phil, wisely, told Rover and Grover, the Golden Retrievers to stop serving him after his second. With Phil being Team Lead, it behooved him not to end doing a face plant in the appetizer of Smoked Carpaccio Platter with Beetroot and Horseradish Relish.

“Ward, it looks like you lost,” Phil murmured to Grant Ward.  “Naked Pasta doesn’t compare to drinks served by droids. Have another drink, why don’t you?”

He gestured and Fifi or maybe it was Bob, as the Golden Retrievers all looked the same to him, quickly filled Grant’s drink.

Appetizers finished, the whiskey enhanced Bonnie Prince Charles Chicken was presented to the team by the Seven Dwarves.

By the time the team got to the dessert, Phil had decided it necessary to add another rule to Team Dinner night.  He made a mental note that as soon as the buzz from the liquor cleared, he’d inform the team that no more than two bottles of liquor were permitted during a Team meal, but it was a lost cause when Fitz presented the Drunken Crumble with an after dinner drink of Blazing Berries.

 ** _Fire_**.

Really what was it with FIRE?

FitzSimmons had seem the most well-adjusted of his children, (NEVER NORMAL, but well-adjusted) but what was this with fascination with fire?

A totally trashed Ward had quickly face planted in his Drunken Crumble, so Skye was delighted to take pictures. Lots and lots of pictures while Phil protested, “Can you at least wait until I leave the room?”

“I concede,” Jemma informed Fitz. “You and your little bots beat me, but I still hope for second place.”

“Hey! I have a chance at winning!” protested youngest child Skye. “I have all sorts of brilliant ideas and they’ll have fire too!”

Phil Coulson decided it best to throw in the towel, after finishing his Blazing Berries. Drambuie 15 should not be permitted to go to waste after all, plus there were blackberries, raspberries and oranges in it, so it was healthy.  A health tonic if you would.

Shit, he was far drunker than he thought he should be if he believed THAT, but it looked like the team was in worst shape. Thank God. He watched in an amused horror while Skye and Simmons attempted to put Ward’s hair in ponytails.

“Good night,” he announced. “I think it’s long past time for me to leave.”

Being the Dad, he ignored Melinda’s look of annoyance. Some things, Moms were much better at handling.

SKYE’S DEBACLE

There had been a slight cooling in their relationship after Daddy Coulson had grounded Littlest Daughter Skye with the Silver Bracelet of Limited Internet Access, but really, she had disappointed him. Really, Jemma and Skye were giving him grey hair and serious agita.

“Today’s your day for the Team Meal, do you need any help?” He asked.

“Got everything covered, AC,” she assured him. “It’s gonna beat Fitz’s flame bots easily.”

Perhaps the most scariest thing he had heard that week, but he continued to benevolently smile. Never show your fear, especially to the children.

“The offer is out there, if you need anything,” he reminded her.

“I’m good,” she assured him.

“Just promise me, no fire,” he requested. 

“Promise,” Skye stated.

He smiled and returned to his office as he had a mound of paperwork that he needed to plow through. Thirty minutes later, the fire alarms began ringing on the BUS, and he knew… without a doubt it was SKYE.

IN THE KITCHEN.

AFTER SHE HAD PROMISED HIM NO FIRE.

At this rate, she’d be wearing the Nanny Bracelet until the day she died.


	5. Skye

FIRE ON THE BUS

“What’s burning?” Phil asked even as he barreled into the kitchen, carrying his trusty Class B Fire Extinguisher.

“Toast,” admitted a horrified Skye.

Considering that he had already died once, he really didn’t fear death as long as he didn’t end in Tahiti once more. He didn’t stop to think, he just reacted. He pulled the electrical cord out of the wall and fortunately, the toaster wasn’t ablaze – it was just smoking. However, it was a complete and utter loss.

“That’s coming out of your salary,” Phil sternly informed a rather embarassed Skye. “Four compartments. Same brand, same style. I thought you were more of a Captain Crunch fan.”

Left unmentioned was the time that he caught her eating cold Ramen Noodles with peanut butter.  It had made his sophisticated taste buds scream in terror.

“I am,” she admitted as she swung her hands. It was a nervous habit of hers, he knew. “It’s just since I’m cooking today, I’d figure that I should cook all day!”

She smiled brightly, obvious in her wish that he’d disappear so he turned and snatched her tablet. What he read made his stomach drop to this feet.

“No, no, no,” he protested. “You cannot even attempt this recipe. You are not deglazing a pan on MY BUS. You just destroyed the toaster, Skye. Deglazing pan, BAD. Skye, BAD.”

“But it’s from the website, Cooking for the Completely Clueless,” protested Skye.

“No, no, no,” he protested once more, suddenly grateful that he never had children with Audrey because really the four he had somehow adopted were enough and in fact, were out of control. What with running with scissors and starting fires. “Did you buy what you needed?”

“No, I thought I’d run out now… but they took the van, so can I borrow the keys to Lola?” She asked, brightly, and then her face fell. “Yeah, thought not.”

“Skye, you have three hours to prepare dinner. Sadly, toast is no longer on the menu,” a morose Phil admitted as his secret treat was a soft boiled egg with a toasted English Muffin.  “Unless as croutons. Pull everything out of the cupboards and empty the fridge, let’s see what we can make.”

SOMEONE DIDN'T FOLLOW THE GROCERY LIST

Phil Coulson reviewed the feast before him and he couldn’t shake his feeling that he was reliving the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Day Special.  Plus, he was hearing Vince Guaraldi in his mental IPOD.

“I’m grounding whoever shopped for groceries yesterday,” announced Phil. “Two boxes of Captain Crunch, chicken, Worchester sauce, peach preserves, ramen noodle, plain and strawberry yogurt,  broccoli slaw, sunflower seeds… bacon, cream cheese, strawberries and strawberry kiwi crystal light packets. Four lemons and sugar. Italian dressing, spinach and pancetta. What do you think you can make from this?”

“A phone call for takeout,” Skye offered.

“That’s cheating. Can I ask you a question? Do you even know how to turn on the stove?” Phil asked.

“I just flick the switch like this,” Skye then demonstrated her skill.

“Please take out the pans before you do that, else there will be another fire,” Phil retorted even as he turned off the stove. “Skye, it’s obvious you don’t know how to cook. Why didn’t you talk to me?”

Littlest daughter Skye went inward, but he saw the glint of the Nanny Bracelet when she crossed her arms.

“Skye, trust is a two way street. I brought you onto the team because I saw something in you that convinced me that you have potential. I trusted you and then you pulled that stunt with Austin.  I am still willing to help you, as I still think you have potential.  No, I **_know_** you have potential. A great deal of it, but…”

“That’s why I wanted to do this on my own,” Skye explained.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t help you?” Phil asked. “Second drawer down, grab the strawberry corer.”

“I needed to do this on my own, because… I wanted to win on my own. Everyone else needed your help and I… ” She pulled out an instrument of vegetable torture and she excitedly exclaimed, “Corer!”

“Peeler, that’s a peeler. You take the skin of a cucumber off with that,” Phil sighed. “This is the corer. This is a colander. Put all the strawberries in it and wash them. Not with dish detergent, Skye.”

“I know that,” she protested even as her hand had been reaching for the liquid soap. “So what are we making?”

“I am tempted to make Captain Crunch Chicken fingers,” Phil admitted. “However, considering someone bought five pounds of strawberries, we need to utilize them and quickly. Captain Crunch chicken fingers might be too sweet. Ok, here’s the game plan, grilled chicken fingers with a strawberry-peach preserve –Worchester dipping sauce, ramen broccoli salad, spinach with crispy pancetta, strawberry granita for desert, strawberry lemonade. Granita first, then the ramen salad, grilled chicken and then spinach. That order.”

LEARNING TO TRUST

Skye merrily squashed strawberries and then poured a bottle of vodka into them before adding strawberry schnapps. Phil decided not to say anything because apparently each team member had decided that team meal night required fire and alcohol. Least, they weren’t bringing in strippers.

She poured the mixture into a metal pan and placed it into the freezer as instructed. Phil once again decided not to comment that she had left a good amount of the Strawberry Liquor mix ready for the strawberry lemonade. However, he made a mental note to have his next physical include a full review of his Liver Functions.

“Let me show you how to cut the chicken,” he offered.

“I can do it,” she protested.

“Skye, I understand you need to be independent but you’re a member of my team. I can offer to help you and I won’t view it as a weakness or you not being capable. I can also offer valuable, hard earned experience that might prevent you from cutting off your fingers.” He then opened the freezer and took out the chicken breasts.  “Didn’t you wonder why I put them back in the freezer?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Why didn’t you ask?” he questioned. “I won’t withhold information on how to prepare food. It’s not classified.”

“I thought it might be a Level 6 secret,” she admitted with some cheek.

“No, that’s Blake’s Secret Sauce for his chicken wings. He’ll only give it to you if you swear an oath,” he joked.

“What’s the oath?” Skye questioned.

“That you won’t give the recipe to John Garrett as Blake’s won the Best Wings of SHIELD for the last five years running,” Phil confessed. “Anyway, I put them in the freezer to make it easier to cut. Let’s wash off the cutting board. Salmonella is a very bad thing.”

Skye nodded, and then Phil explained how to prep for cutting chicken. He then took a large knife, explained how to curl your fingers just so and how to cut the breast into strips. That accomplished without bloodshed, he put the slices into the marinade that he had created.

“Did your father teach you how to cook?” Skye asked.

“He died when I was seven. It was just my mom and me, so she taught me how to cook so I’d have dinner ready when she came home from work. She worked two jobs to keep us in an apartment. She taught me the basics and then I started getting creative.”

“Like Captain Crunch chicken fingers?” was her next question.

“No, no, no. That I picked up in a bar crawl,” he admitted.  “I saved some of the chicken so you can make it, as I know how much you love Captain Crunch and ramen noodles.  This way, no matter what happens, I can rest assured at night that you know how to cook at least two recipes.”

Littlest daughter Skye’s face scrunched up as though she wanted to say something but she was worried that she might get too emotional.

“And ramen noodles with peanut butter is NOT a recipe. If you want to make sesame noodles, I’ll show you how to make them,” he informed her.

That earned him a warm smile.

“Now let’s talk about pancetta,” he suggested. “Pancetta is not the same thing as Prosciutto.”

“Both sound Italian to me,” admitted Skye.

“No, no, no. There’s a huge difference.”  Phil then began explaining to Skye who was pretending to be interested. “Hey, pay attention. You might never know when you’ll need to know this as you’ll be on Jeopardy.”

“I can’t use you as my lifeline?” Skye asked.

“Wrong show.”

DINNER

Dinner was served, a rather low key affair. There was no fire, well least not in front of the other team members, and it went rather well.  Though May shot him a dirty look when she realized that Skye had decided to add Captain Crunch Chicken fingers to the menu.

And Phil was quite proud of his littlest daughter, who struggled so hard to be independent, and who was taking baby steps in learning to trust those around her. That is, until he woke up with a hangover.

“How much vodka did she put in the lemonade?” he protested. “I only had two glasses!”


	6. 6

 

Five Times One of the Team Cooked the Team Meal

(AND THE ONE TIME PHIL DIDN’T)

 “I’m really excited because tonight Coulson is making the meal,” Jemma confessed to Skye.  She closed her cooking magazine that she had picked up when she had last shopped. It was dog eared and highlighted as she found several recipes that she would try when it was the next time she had to cook for the team.

“Any idea what he’s making?” Skye asked.  She had stopped by the lab to share the cookies she had successfully made, though she had to admit that they were a little crispy. “I’m sure it’s something exotic.”

“Seafood,” mumbled Fitz. He was happily devouring Skye’s cookies as he was a growing boy. “Or steak!”

“Sounds delicious,” Skye admitted. “I haven’t gone near the kitchen as I want to be surprised.”

 

COULSON

 

After a long video conference with a steamed Nick Fury, Phil looked at his watch, realized the time and winced when he remembered it was his turn to prepare dinner. Well, the team would have to deal with takeout.

Needless to say the team appeared displeased when they traipsed in to the dining room and realized that he had ordered Mexican. He wasn’t sure why, after all he had cooked their meals for them when it had been their turn to cook. That should count.

 Seriously, all the children were pouting, including surly Ward and even Melinda looked unhappy. He didn't deserve that as he had ordered additional pico de gallo just for her.

It took a moment to realize why the team was so annoyed.

No fire.

No alcohol.

No alcohol on fire.

No strippers either.

Oh well, it just left more mole sauce for him.

 

 


End file.
